


Wilting Bloom

by Caelanmiriel



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, RARE PAIR ALERT, Sick Fic, bards ready to Fite, but its Witcher are we really shocked when people say fuck, but they're still gloriously bitchy, naughty language ahead, this is soft, valdo is soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:20:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23119894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caelanmiriel/pseuds/Caelanmiriel
Summary: When Olivier brings his breakfast up (and bless the man, he has the patience of a saint sometimes, and the heart of one too), Jaskier bluntly tells him not let to let anyone else up. He’s sulking. He can admit that quite readily, and frankly, he thinks he’s earned it. Never missed the contest in his life, and now he gets himself both injured and sick in one fell swoop? It’s fair to say his mood is pretty black.When the door swings gently inwards, he assumes it’s the healer come to check in or bring more painkilling brews; suffice to say he is not expecting Valdo Marx to stick his infuriating head in.“Oh no,” Jaskier groans. “It’s you.”
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Valdo Marx
Comments: 21
Kudos: 251
Collections: these bitches gay! good for them!!





	Wilting Bloom

The thing is, Jaskier was planning on leaving anyway.

Not that that excuses Geralt’s behaviour, of course. Don’t get him wrong, Jaskier was under no illusions that Geralt did anything more than tolerate his presence with the kind of exasperation reserved for a misbehaving feral dog you can’t keep from following you but haven’t the heart to put down (because surely if the man felt any kind of fondness for him after all this time, he would’ve responded to Jaskier’s clear and open friendship and affection), but even so, that kind of vitriol had been a bit much. Jaskier suspected he was simply lashing out, because Geralt was always economical with words and careful about when he insulted, but even if that was the case the venom in his eyes was real. A man doesn’t unthinkingly accuse another man of being responsible for every bad thing in his life unless the thought has already crossed his mind a few times.

He’d felt eyes on him as he walked away. Not Geralt’s of course. Never Geralt’s. But Yennefer had been in earshot, and Borch, and if Borch was there then Téa and Véa wouldn’t have been far. They’d heard. Jaskier had burned as he’d slunk away, angry and hurt and _embarrassed_. Somehow, out of all the ridiculous situations he’d found himself in over the years, tossed out of windows without any of his clothes, he’s never felt quite so stripped of his dignity.

He wants off this fucking mountain, doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more, and when Jaskier wants something he makes damn sure he gets it. Never mind that he’s left everything but his lute back at their mountaintop camp. Never mind that he travels far later into the night than he should. Jaskier has places to be, and those places are wherever Geralt isn’t.

And really, he _had_ been planning to leave. There’s a festival every year in Novigrad that he’s never missed, not since the first time he’d picked up a lute and shed the suffocating weight of Julian, Viscount de Lettenhove forever. The three-day celebration culminated in a bardic competition that Jaskier has won more than once, and he has a title to defend.

(And if there’s a decided lack of monsters within Novigrad’s walls that means demand for a witcher is almost zero, well, all the better.)

He gets sick, and he isn’t surprised. He always was more prone to it than he liked to admit, a sickly child, frequently confined to his bed. It does, at least, mean he knows how to cope, knows the teas to brew to ease him along, drinks them four times a day and hopes it’ll pass by the time he reaches the city.

It doesn’t. He’s performed through worse.

He takes his usual room at the Kingfisher, reluctantly turns down Olivier’s offer of cut price beer but _does_ indulge in a little mead once it’s pointed out the honey it’s made from can’t be _that_ much different to the honey in his tea and, well, he can’t really argue with that.

He can, and he should, but he won’t.

And oh, Novigrad, _Novigrad_. It’s no Oxenfurt, but it’s a close second for the fondest spot in his heart. He loves the chaos of it, the way that people here don’t just survive, they _live_ , ships that don’t pass silently in the night but collide in a riot of colour and stories and song. The whole thing is amplified in the buzz of the festival, narrow streets bustling, swags of bunting and lanterns strung between buildings that seem to sag beneath the weight of them. There’re clusters of bards on street corners, their playing clumsy and fine clothes worn; they’re almost certainly students from the Academy and new to their craft, but they’ve a crowd nonetheless, and are wearing that first performance glow that Jaskier remembers so well.

Hierarch Square is full, vibrant, and the party will go for the whole night, into the morning, then on through the night again; he’ll have a perfect view of it all from his room, and he certainly won’t be getting much sleep. The bonfire is huge, and as Jaskier drifts around it feeling buoyant and gloriously detached, he accepts everything pressed into his hands, mugs filled with ale and wine and mead, hard candies and sweet pies and spiced meats on sticks. Whatever joy the wide-open road had brought him is nothing compared to the rush of this, the heady warmth of Novigrad’s bustle. Whatever unpleasant feeling Geralt had left him with is gone, chased away by unrestrained delight that lifts him with it, and he soars, untethered, unburdened by such mortal things as the weight of living.

And then he gets mugged. And doesn’t that just ruin the evening.

The only thing more likely to guarantee a beating than getting mugged, is getting mugged when you haven’t a single penny or valuable thing on you. It probably says a lot about him as a person that as kicks land that are almost certainly breaking ribs, he’s only thankful he left his lute back at the Kingfisher.

Zoltan gets him to his room. When he wakes, he knows instantly he cannot perform. Gods, he rages. He rages, and further hurts himself in the process, and confines his rage to silent fuming.

He fumes for two days, and pointedly doesn’t watch them setting up the stage.

When Olivier brings his breakfast up (and bless the man, he has the patience of a saint sometimes, and the heart of one too), Jaskier bluntly tells him not let to let anyone else up. He’s _sulking_. He can admit that quite readily, and frankly, he thinks he’s earned it. Never missed the contest in his life, and now he gets himself both injured and sick in one fell swoop? It’s fair to say his mood is pretty black.

When the door swings gently inwards, he assumes it’s the healer come to check in or bring more painkilling brews; suffice to say he is _not_ expecting Valdo Marx to stick his infuriating head in.

“Oh no,” Jaskier groans. “It’s _you_.”

“It’s me!” The bastard does a little flourishing turn, but does at least have the courtesy to close the door behind him. “When I heard you’d been laid up I thought you could use a little cheering up, especially given the time of year, and I figured what could be better than gracing you with my glorious presence? You look like shit.”

“Finally, we have something in common,” Jaskier rasps bitterly. In the wake of getting the shit thoroughly kicked out of him his body seems to have given up on getting over the illness, and he’s feeling worse than he has done for a long while. He’s certain he looks it too – swollen black eye, split lip, broken nose, broken arm in its neat splint.

Valdo, on the other hand, has scrubbed up quite nicely. His honey-gold hair has its usual soft waves, conditioned within an inch of its life and gleaming in the candle glow. His clothes are clearly new, a soft, purple-sage green and embroidered intricately with silver thread. The doublet has a high collar, up to his chin, and two neat rows of tiny buttons up each cuff. He’s aging gracefully, the lines on his face coupled with the scruff on his chin giving him quite the distinguished look, the fucker.

In fact, Jaskier’s sure he looks quite ridiculous in comparison, present situation considered. Over the course of the day he’s gradually slipped down from the precarious stack of pillows he’d been propped up by and ended up almost flat on his back, neck at an uncomfortable angle. It’s not the most dignified position to be flinging insults from. He tries to sit himself up, but finds he hasn’t quite got the strength in his uninjured arm. When he does manage to shift himself, all he does is cause his pain to flare up brightly and he lets out a pained hiss.

Valdo sets his lute case down carefully by the door and strides over to the bed. He yanks the covers back so he can slip one arm under Jaskier’s knees and another behind his back, picking him up and settling him against the pillows despite the fact that Jaskier loudly curses the whole time. The whole thing triggers an uncomfortable bout of coughing, though at least the new position eases the pain in his chest a little.

“Melitele’s _tits_ Julian, you’re shaking! Why isn’t the thrice damned fire in this room lit?” He tosses the covers back over him and goes to the stack of blankets on the chest at the end of the bed, fastidiously tucking Jaskier in like he’s a child struggling to sleep.

Jaskier scowls at him. “Don’t you fucking coddle me. I’m tired of being treated like an invalid.”

“You _are_ an invalid,” Valdo says bluntly, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed. “And you’re even bitchier than usual. Keep pulling that face and it’ll stick that way, and then you’ll have nothing going for you at all. You’ll have to go into hiding. Like a troll.”

“Well, I always wanted to meet your family.”

Valdo snorts. “Are you aware that your insults thus far have been the equivalent of ‘no, you’? I’m disappointed, I expected better.”

Jaskier gives him a dry look. “You’ll forgive me for not being on top form, given the circumstances.”

“That’s no excuse, you useless wretch, though I suppose I can be generous and let you off. I hope you know I expect a thorough verbal thrashing the next time we meet, however.” He smiles, finally, the fondness that inevitably peeks through when they decide they’ve spent enough time at each other’s throats and left them thoroughly savaged. “So, what’s the damage? They’ve done a good job of setting your nose, by the way, nice neat job.”

“I hope that’s your way of saying I’m still pretty,” he says with a sigh; he’ll admit that the thought had crossed his mind. His profession often depends on his face as much as it does his voice and hands. “The arm’s broken, but not badly. Clean, whatever that means. Few broken ribs, ankle sprained, impressive collection of bruises. _Fucking_ Novigrad.”

“Don’t say that, you cad, you love her.” He swats him on the shoulder, then looks sufficiently guilty when Jaskier winces. “Honestly, I didn’t think you were stupid enough to go roaming around the Bits, festival or not. Because, see, now _I_ have to go in there and fight the blaggards to defend my own honour, I thought everyone knew that only I may beat the shit out of you but apparently that lesson needs driving home.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Valdo, darling, you’re not capable of beating the shit out of _anyone_. In fact, I’d put good money on you being so inept at throwing a punch you’d be more likely of hitting yourself in the face than whoever you were taking a swing at.”

Valdo makes an exaggerated offended noise. “Oh, and you’re suddenly an expert in combat, I see? Been taking lessons from that witcher of yours I assume? Where is the brute anyway, last I heard the two of you were quite inseparable. Don’t tell me he finally saw sense and got bored of you.”

For a moment, Jaskier’s vision clouds over with fury, and he isn’t quite sure who he’s most angry at, Valdo or Geralt. The pain seems momentarily far away, and his ears are pounding, pulse thudding at his throat. “ _Fuck off, Marx_ ,” he hisses viciously, nostrils flaring. “ _Get out_.”

Valdo winces, and to his credit does look genuinely regretful. “Ah. I see I’ve thoroughly touched a nerve, if the legendary Pankratz vitriol has been provoked. Would you believe me if I said it wasn’t my intention?”

“ _No,_ ” he says petulantly, even though deep down he knows it’s the truth.

“Well, come on then, out with it. Surely you know that if you can tell anyone your troubles, it’s me.”

He’s right, is the thing. Despite being a truly terrible gossip, he _can_ keep things to himself when he’s so inclined. He’s a sympathetic listener, too, when he puts his mind to it, and he always seems to know when Jaskier needs him to soften.

Valdo reaches over to take Jaskier’s uninjured hand in his, giving it a firm squeeze that so clearly reads as ‘ _pull yourself together’_ – he lets it ground him, lets himself settle back into practiced indifference.

“Really, Julian, tell me what the oaf has done.”

“Oh, nothing, I suppose,” he says hollowly. “Only looked back on twenty years of companionship and came to the conclusion that I was obviously responsible for every bad thing that had befallen him, with an unspoken implication that I was perhaps doing it on purpose. One cannot shovel shit by accident, after all, and apparently I’ve been shovelling quite ardently. He rounded the whole thing off by informing me that if life could give him one blessing it would be to rid him of me, and you know me, I aim to please.”

“What a horrendous _bitch_ ,” Valdo says with feeling, rubbing his thumb over the back of Jaskier’s hand soothingly.

Jaskier sighs. “Yeah, I came to that conclusion as well, though it took me longer than I’d like to admit. I was pretty upset at first, but it’s a rather useless emotion. I find anger’s much more productive.”

“Hm, quite. Do you think I’ve time to write a song denouncing him before the contest starts? Clearly the world needs to be reminded that there’s a certain natural order to these things, and not only am I the only one allowed to fight and _thoroughly_ trounce you, I’m the only one allowed to make you cry. I’ve earned that dubious honour and I’ll be damned if I let anyone else have the privilege.”

“Bold of you to think I’ve ever cried over you,” Jaskier snorts, “or him.”

Valdo rolls his eyes imperiously, fluttering his lashes. “Julian, please, _he_ may not be worth your tears but I _certainly_ am.”

“Tears of laughter over the noises you insist be mistaken for music, perhaps.”

“That’s rich, coming from a talentless wastrel.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by another bout of painful coughing; amazingly, Valdo waits patiently for him to finish. “Am I to teach you the lesson about ‘pandering’ again, you useless jester? A man walks into a tavern with only his own music in mind and walks out with no coin, but play what the audience wants to hear and when your name is known _then_ you can play whatever your heart desires with the security of your reputation- “

“Alright, calm down before you hurt yourself. If you want to lecture so badly, go back to Oxenfurt and find some eager young idiots to hang on your every word.”

“Well, you may not be eager or young, but at least you’ve got the idiot part down. I suppose one out of three isn’t bad.”

Valdo smirks. “You know, I can’t think of a response to that that isn’t some variation of ‘no, you’, and I can’t really fall back on that when I’ve already scolded you for it. I think I’ll have to resort to my second most successful technique; _distraction_. Let me have a proper look at these terrible bruises of yours, I was a little preoccupied before.” He leans forward to tug at the covers.

Jaskier slaps at his hand weakly. “Fuck off, you know I’m naked.”

“All the more reason, don’t you think?”

Valdo wiggles his eyebrow in a truly preposterous manner, clearly to draw a laugh; it works, and Jaskier’s black mood is lightening no matter how much he doesn’t want to give the smug bastard the credit for it, but the laugh then turns to coughs, deep and sharp.

There’s a jug of water by the side of the bed, a small cracked mug beside it; Valdo hastens to pour a drink to hand to him, carefully not noticing the way his hand shakes. He retakes his seat on the bed not by Jaskier’s feet but by his side, knocking their shoulders gently together.

“How, exactly, did they manage to get you _sick_ as well as beaten, you fool? Is this some sort of new disease transmittable through kicks that we all ought to be afeared of?”

“I was already sick,” he admits between long, slow sips. “But that’s what comes from slogging down from Caingorn in less than optimal weather I guess.”

Valdo scoffs and takes the mug from him when he’s finished. “And you were planning to perform anyway? With your voice sounding like a rusty gear and sweat on your brow? I knew you were a dolt and an ignoramus but I wasn’t aware you were truly _stupid_.”

Jaskier sniffs. “I was sick when I performed at that competition four years ago in Cintra, you know,” he says loftily.

“But you beat me, you bastard!” Valdo cries incredulously.

Jaskier only gives him a smug smile, though the increased volume hurts his aching head. “Don’t you have a competition to ready for?”

“Perhaps _you_ need to take time to prepare, you talentless fop, but some of us are ready to perform at a moment’s notice.”

“Not if you’re to write that vicious ballad you promised me,” he says cheerfully.

“Aha!” Valdo says suddenly, bright and smug. “You see, that was a _smile_. I _told_ you my glorious presence would cheer you!”

Jaskier groans, though the smile stays. “Fuck you.”

“Much as that would please me, I don’t think you’re up to it. Sure we could think of something else though, it’s not just my hands that are magic. I reckon I can manage to kiss a few things better.”

“I beg your fucking pardon?”

Valdo grins. “I’ll have you know it’s a proven medicinal treatment, every mother says so, and mother knows best.”

“A healer might disagree.”

“Bah, what do they know. Here, look I’ll prove it.”

He reaches up to smooth Jaskier’s hair away from his sweaty forehead, pressing a light kiss in the wake of his hand. His lips are cool and soft, and it _is_ nice, if only because Jaskier unashamedly craves affection. He takes Jaskier’s chin carefully in hand, tilting his face upwards to better reach his lips, kissing him long, slow, sweet; Jaskier is suddenly struck by the thought that his treacherous lungs could rebel at any moment, could send him coughing right into Valdo’s mouth, and he’s pretty sure the mortification would be enough to do him in.

“I’ll get you sick,” he protests, but doesn’t pull away from the soft touch, voice a quiet murmur against Valdo’s lips.

“Well, then I’m sure you’ll return the favour and kiss _me_ better. After all, it’s working, isn’t it?”

“I believe I need more proof,” Jaskier demures.

“Ah, well, if further evidence is required what can I do but comply. Shall I give special attention to your precious throat? I’d _so_ hate it if I lost my biggest rival to a lingering blight on his vocal cords.”

“You’re hardly my rival,” Jaskier protests, even as Valdo’s lips move to his neck; he can surely feel the words as much as he hears them. “To be a rival you’d have to be _good_.”

Valdo hums indulgently. “I’m _great_.”

His teeth scrape over Jaskier’s sensitive throat in reprimand, and it draws a gasp breathy with a neediness he doesn’t bother to hide. It’s not like it’s the first time they’ve tangled; Valdo knows just what he needs, and how, and how to use it against him. He likes to fuss, and Jaskier likes to be fussed over, likes a rough fuck with a soft touch, and Gods if Valdo doesn’t have it down to an art, and _knows it_. It’s why he does this now, knowing that this cannot go much further, that he’ll walk away leaving Jaskier frustrated and wanting.

Jaskier loathes and loves him all at once.

“You’ve warmed up, it seems. A little _too_ warm, I’d say,” Valdo scolds, as if it’s somehow Jaskier’s fault. “Shall we get these blankets off you?”

He peels them back, layer by layer, with excruciating care, like he’s approaching a birthday present with a particular kind of anticipation. Jaskier _is_ warm, an unpleasantness of the fever, but still he shivers, and even more so as the final blanket is tugged away and the cooler air hits his skin.

Valdo takes a step away and looks him over appraisingly, critically, like he’s choosing a new doublet. Jaskier squirms a little, uncomfortable in a thrilling sort of way, on display and unable to do a thing about it.

“They really did a number on you, didn’t they? Poor thing,” Valdo says softly, face turning introspective in a way Jaskier doesn’t like as he catalogues each and every vicious bruise.

“I’m sure I’ve had worse. Stop _staring_ and put your hands on me, you swine,” Jaskier whines

“Impatient, impatient,” he tuts even as he steps in close again, brushing gentle fingers down Jaskier’s chest. “Can’t a man take the time to appreciate something so fine?”

“I look a fright.”

Valdo presses a tender kiss to his collarbone, gentle on the bruise. “Would it be terribly sappy of me if I told you I think you always look beautiful?”

“Yes.”

“Tough.” He moves down his chest, slow and lingering, breath warm on Jaskier’s skin. “I know you love it really. You can’t hide a thing from me, Julian.”

Jaskier arches up into his touch as he goes lower, jolts his broken ribs and drops back into the mattress with a frustrated noise. His breathing is getting heavier, one hand tangled lazily in Valdo’s hair as he kisses along his hipbones, and as his breaths get deeper the pain in his chest only increases. He wants them to go on, wants to fall into their usual routine of heated words and touches, but his body shivers still, and as Jaskier begins to violently cough Valdo jerks away. He reaches up to Jaskier’s face once it’s passed, cups his cheek with one hand and runs his other through his hair.

Jaskier sighs, a dry, rattling thing. “I’m already bored of this.”

“Well, look at it this way, you’ll only enjoy it all the more when I _can_ ravage you.” He reaches back for the blankets, tucking them around him once more. Fussing, always fussing. “Besides, I’m on my way to win a contest, and who doesn’t want to fuck a champion?”

“You _better_ win. If it isn’t me taking that prize it ought to be you, I won’t stand for anything less. And I expect you to win it in my name. Dedicate every song to me.”

Valdo grins. “Shall I open the window for you, so you can better hear my angelic voice?”

“First you leave me unsatisfied, and now you wish to torture me? If I didn’t know better I’d say you were angry with me.”

“ _Please_ , if I were to torture you I’d be much more inventive about it. And if you didn’t enjoy my charming voice so much, I don’t think you’d consider me a rival worthy of winning the whole thing in your place.” He places one last kiss to Jaskier’s forehead, slow and lingering and sweet. “Of course, I’m sure I’d be guaranteed the win if you were to let me borrow that incomparable lute of yours…”

“ _Don’t you fucking dare.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know. Valdo Marx.
> 
> Thing is, I love messing with characters and perceptions of characters, and we don’t know the first thing about Valdo, other than that Jaskier wanted him dead, and lord knows how that came about. Maybe they had a spat and Jaskier was being overdramatic, maybe Valdo was being an absolute shit, maybe they hadn’t even met but despised each other on reputation alone, who knows, not me! Will I write about the Incident one day? Who knows, definitely not me! Either way, there’s a lot of fun possibilities with Valdo, and since I already wrote a fic where he literally hired people to kill Jaskier, I figured there was some fun to be had at the other end of the scale.
> 
> (Besides, let's be honest, if Jaskier had known Yennefer before the djinn he probably would’ve wished apoplexy on her too, so if people can write them as gloriously bitchy friends I don’t see why I cant do it with the bards. Gloriously bitchy friends for everyone.)
> 
> Many thanks to the lovely Renfri for looking this over for me!


End file.
